


Praise of Mahakala

by Aneres



Category: Marco Polo (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-19 15:56:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4752266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aneres/pseuds/Aneres
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Byamba wants to read poetry to Khutulun, much to her dismay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Praise of Mahakala

The dying embers in their hearth illuminate Byamba’s profile. They lay in their sleeping furs, warmed by each other’s bare skin. Khutulun admires her husband’s lush lips and fights the urge to distract him with kisses. He wants to read poetry for whatever reason and the least she can do is indulge his strange impulses. 

 

“ _Let me eloquently praise in rhymes. . . Your mighty wisdom renowned to all . . . With four arms and unique face -_ ”

 

“What is this from?” Khutulun asks.

 

Byamba bits his lip, smiling, “It is called the Praise of Mahakala.”

 

“Ah,” Khutulun says, resting her chin against his shoulder. He looks at her through half closed eyes, his mouth fighting a grin, and she nods, “Proceed.”

 

He clears his throat and continues, “ _With three red circular eyes. . ._ ”

 

Almost immediately, Khutulun feels her mind wandering again. Byamba rambles on about a fierce creature with yellow hair and teeth which can grind an entire human. Khutulun, however, is much more interested in the broad expanse of her husband’s back. Her hand settles into the valley between his shoulder blades before she gently runs a finger down his spine. 

 

Byamba shudders at the sensation. Khutulun feels his groans rumbling in chest as she draws the shape of his fan-like shoulder muscles. He asks her, “Are you listening?”

 

“No,” Khutulun says. He has three parallel scars which runs adjacent to his ribs. She touches the soft flesh, kissing each scar in turn, “How did you get these?”

 

“I do not recall,” Byamba says, turning so he lays supine, “Training if I had to guess.”

 

Khutulun presses closer, positioning herself into the crook of his arm. In spite of his protesting, he holds her tightly, resting his palm on the crest of her hip. Byamba presses a kiss against her forehead and mutters, “Listen. It is beautiful.”

 

Sighing, Khutulun throws her arm across his belly and says, “Continue.”

 

“ _Attach yourself to and protect, Mahakala. . . The lord of dharma, king and queen . . . Teachers, ministers, sons and daughters . . .  Nobles and sons-in-law, each and everyone. . . By the merit of praising in these rhymes . . . Your holiness’ mighty wisdom,_ ” Byamba reads, his voice deep and comforting, “ _May all beings reach nirvana._ ”

 

“This is a Buddhist poem?” Khutulun asks. 

 

“Yes,” Byamba says, “ _And may this cycle become empty -_ ”

 

“Did you mother read this to you when you were young?” Khutulun asks. 

 

“She did. Now I wish to share it with you,” Byamba replies. He pauses, watching her out of the corner of his eye. 

 

Khutulun plays with the hair on his chest, looks at him expectantly.

 

“May I go on?” Byamba asks.

 

Her face becomes a mask of mocking surprise. She says, “Of course.”

 

“ _May the monk Choiji-Odser . . . Who summarizing all your mighty wisdom . . . Melodically offers these rhymed praises . . . Escape -_ ”

 

“What is this poem about?” Khutulun asks.

 

Byamba lays down the scroll, “If you would let me finish, then perhaps you would know.”

 

“If you tell me, then I will certainly know,” Khutulun retorts.

 

“It is not for me to tell you, Khutulun. You must find its meaning yourself.” Byamba turns his attention back to the first line, “ _Let me eloquently praise in rhymes._ What does that mean to you? ”

 

She is not dense. She knows the line means that what follows will be a poem in praise of the Buddha. However, it does to fulfill her objective to be so observant. Shrugging Khutulun quips, “They are pretty words.”

 

“Pretty words? Is that all you can - ”

 

From the corner, a mewling cry arises. Byamba glances at Khutulun. She meets his gaze with equal intensity. The sound of the tiny creature’s outrage becomes more insistent.

 

“You woke him up,” Khutulun says. 

 

Groaning enormously, Byamba tosses his poetry away as he rises. Their son stares up at his father, his small face red and pinched in annoyance. Byamba coos as he lifts his child from the cradle, “I am so sorry, Batbayar.”

 

“If all men jump to please him as you do, perhaps he will grow to become a fine general,” Khutulun says, a smile in her voice as she rests her head on her palm. 

 

Batbayar whimpers into Byamba’s shoulder, his little fingers tangling into the short hairs on his father’s neck. Byamba nods, his tone sympathetic as he says, “I know, my son. She can be so unrefined.”

 

Khutulun scoffs, sitting up. She holds out her hands, saying, “Give him to me, Byamba. He is hungry.”

 

Byamba presses his lips into Batbayar’s cheek and obliges with his wife’s command before laying himself down, close to Khutulun's side. When their baby is settled and feeding, Khutulun looks at Byamba with a grin on her face, “Well? We are waiting. Are you finished with your poetry?”

 

Byamba groans, “You are going to listen this time?”

 

Mouth aghast in false protest, Khutulun nods. She presses her finger into Batbaya’s palm, admiring the strength of her small son’s grip, saying, “Of course, we will.”

 

His moves exaggerated, Byamba reaches for the poem, “I do not remember where we were. Oh, yes. _I_ _f they sing with their melodious song . . ._ _May all illnesses and demons be pacified . . . And each become Buddhas at the end._ ”

 

“Very good. You see? I let you get all the way to the end,” Khutulun says. 

 

“I thank you for your attention,” Byamba says, turning to sprawl on his back, throughly exhausted by his efforts. 

 


End file.
